


It's only love, not a time bomb

by blackkat



Series: Superhero!AU [4]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Aggressive Pining, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Crack, F/M, Humor, M/M, Madara the walking human train wreck, Masturbation, Pining, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 19:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7904947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are starting to make a truly horrifying amount of sense, now that Madara's brain has managed to leapfrog from Point A to Point My Best Friend’s Little Brother Is Also Sort of My Sexy Nemesis. Like the flirting, for one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's only love, not a time bomb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Red_Hot_Holly_Berries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Hot_Holly_Berries/gifts).



> Redhothollyberries requested this and I entirely failed to say no (because she’s awesome and amazing and an enabler the likes of which only my twin can match). You wanted pining, Holly, and I hope this delivers! :)
> 
> (The title is from Pink’s _Timebomb_ , because if any song manages to embody the ridiculousness of this whole fic, it’s that one.)

It’s a very good indicator of just what a low Madara's life as reached, that he can remember the exact moment he started to lose his mind.

Not simply remember it, either—oh no, that would be too kind. Madara can pinpoint it down to the _second_ , has a clear line between the sanity of his childhood and—and _this._

It was summer then, the very end of it. At nineteen, Madara was thoroughly occupied dragging Hashirama kicking and screaming through the police academy, despite what seemed like his best attempts to fail. (Hashirama, Madara has noticed after far, far too many years of friendship, has problems with authority. He just happens to hide it behind basset hound puppy eyes and the demeanor of an absolute fool. Of course, that would probably have been a good thing to remember _before_ they signed their lives away to that same authority.)

He’d been busy. There was no time or opportunity to dwell on the fact that Hashirama’s gangly, irritating little brother had moved out of their apartment, several entire neighborhoods away from both Hashirama’s overbearing care and that menace Tōka’s hawk-like watch. In fact, it hadn’t even crossed his mind that he hadn’t seen the silver-haired brat in almost a year until Hashirama came bounding in one day, crowing about having finally gotten Tobirama and the harpy-woman to agree to come over for dinner.

It hadn’t concerned him at the time. He’d mumbled something about picking up pizza—mostly because he knows Mito loathes it—and entirely forgotten under the weight of his workload.

Two nights later he went to answer the door, and discovered that Hashirama’s gangly, awkward, acne-ridden little brother had metamorphosed into something Madara can only call _devastatingly gorgeous_. One glance and Madara had entirely lost his breath, his heart, and his entire damn mind to boot.

Hashirama knows. It’s one of those exquisitely awkward things they never talk about but can't avoid knowing, because their first four apartments were roughly the size of shoeboxes, with walls to match. A single thin sheet of drywall cannot sufficiently muffle the sound of a wet dream, as both of them have learned through an excessive amount of trial and error. Consequently, Madara is also fully aware of Hashirama’s ridiculous levels of admiration for the hell-witch who’s chemically bonded to Tobirama’s side.

They're pathetic, the both of them, and Madara's current state isn’t doing much to convince him otherwise.

Tobirama snarls at him, red eyes narrow, elegant features lit with fury around the deep stain of the bruising on his pale skin. Hashirama is fluttering around him, trying to apply ice packs everywhere as he frets over his little brother and the witch in equal measure, and is ignored by both of them. Madara would scoff at him, maybe conceivably try to help, but he can't—all of his attention is caught on the man before him, beautiful even with half his face bruised violet.

“Like _hell_ ,” Tobirama bites out, precise and chilly and _furious_ where another person would be spitting with it. “It was one incident. It will not happen again. We are _not moving_.”

Madara is so fed up at this point that he’s prepared to march over with boxes, pack up their cockroach-infested apartment by himself, and physically relocate the two without asking for their permission. “You could have been _killed_ ,” he snarls right back, leveling a finger in Tobirama’s (gorgeous, tempting, untouchable) face. “Once is all that’s required, you idiot!”

There's temper snapping in that crimson gaze, anger and frustration crackling in the air like a physical force, and Tobirama stalks right across the safe space that separates them, pushing in until Madara's finger is practically touching his chest. “We _weren’t_! We were hardly even hurt!”

 _I don’t give a damn about the harpy-queen_ , Madara comes dangerously, desperately close to saying, because all he can see is a file on his desk at work, cold, clinical photos of the person he’s loved for almost eight years now sprawled lifeless on the pavement. Beaten to death in some side-alley shortcut, _stolen_ because Madara can't be everywhere at night, can't be _enough_ even as Sharingan to keep those he cares for safe. Izuna is a headache and a half all by himself, cheerfully wandering into danger in pursuit of stories, but Madara has mostly come to terms with the fact that it’s his little brother’s choice, the job he’s in, and there’s not much to be done.

Tobirama’s situation, however, is very much something Madara can fix. He has solutions, he can _protect_ , but they won't _let him_ , and Madara can't remember a time when something frustrated him more.

But then, Tobirama’s always been like that, hasn’t he?

It helps nothing at all that Tobirama presses right up into his face, kissable-close, to glare at him. They're the same height, almost exactly, and across the bare inches that remain between them the deep bruising is all too clear. Madara wants to touch it, to reach out and cradle Tobirama’s face in his hands, kiss away the ache that must be present. He wants to gather the leaner man in his arms, guard him, protect him, drag him to bed and never let him out even though he knows Tobirama would rather die than allow someone to keep him like that.

It takes all of Madara's considerable willpower—and remembering Tobirama’s ever-present, maddening _disinterest_ —to keep from burying his hands in frost-white hair, pulling Tobirama forward those last few breaths, and kissing his bruised and swollen lips until they're bruised and swollen for much, much more pleasant reason.

“Reckless _idiot_ ,” Madara snaps, and has to rake his hands through his own wild hair to keep from doing something unspeakably stupid. “Does nothing connect in that empty little head of yours? Your brother is _frantic_ worrying about you! Your neighborhood is filthy and crime-ridden and the only reason you haven’t been killed already is sheer _luck_!”

There's a moment of ringing silence in the wake of his loss of temper. The air around Tobirama seems to grow colder, though Madara is sure it’s only his imagination, projecting on the atmosphere between them to match the frosty fury in Tobirama’s eyes. Another moment of complete, agonizing stillness and Tobirama turns on his heel, heading for the door with measured steps that are just an ounce too light to be a stalk. “If that’s your opinion of me,” he bites out without looking back, “we’re well-served living as far away as we can get.”

Flimsy brown particle-board slams closed after him, shuddering on its hinges, and the silence returns. From where she’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, Mito stirs, rising to her feet and catching Hashirama’s wrist in her hand as he moves to follow his brother. She shakes her head without saying a word, plucks the ice pack from his lax fingers, and leans up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Goodnight,” she says kindly, and without so much as glancing at Madara follows her friend out into the hall.

The dinner they had planned sits on the table, untouched and congealing, but Madara doesn’t care enough to rescue it. He’s furious at himself, embarrassed, _aroused_. One half-second of Tobirama close enough to touch if he were just a little bolder and his self-control is nothing but a memory.

Taking a breath that almost shakes, Madara spins and heads for his bedroom. He slams the door and doesn’t feel guilty for it, picks up the book he was reading before Tobirama arrived and hurls it at the wall with an impotent snarl. Fingers in his hair again, dragging and pulling, and he groans, ready to start punching the drywall except they're still not wealthy enough that he can risk their security deposit. Instead he hurls himself down onto his bed, throwing an arm over his eyes, and tries to breathe through his frustration.

It works, to an extent. Except—

Except Madara wants to know how things would have changed had he given in to his impulses. He wants to know, the same way he has for years, just what Tobirama would sound like under him, what he’d look like with Madara's cock inside him and Madara's mouth on his. _Wants_ , as simple as that, wants Tobirama even when he’s maddening, even when Madara wants to rip his own hair out or grab Tobirama and shake him or lock him up in a closet when he refuses to see any form of sense.

He imagines it, feeling his breath hitch in his lungs and the slow coil of heat unwind in his belly. Tobirama on his stomach—no, on his back, sprawled out against Madara's sheets with a flush high up on those beautiful red-marked cheekbones. Hands above him, clinging to the slats of the headboard, leanly muscled body drawn up in a helpless arch. Dazed eyes, Madara's name wrung from his mouth, helpless with the pleasure of Madara's hands on him.

Madara's hand is sliding down his body before he can even think to stop it, popping the button on his jeans and shoving them and his underwear down. He closes a hand around his half-hard cock, a gasp stuttering out of his throat at the sensation, and strokes lightly. Letting his eyes slip shut, he brings that mental image to the forefront, pictures smooth, pale skin stretched over hard muscle, long, slender legs and muscular thighs parting beneath Madara's touch. Imagines Tobirama’s cock, never seen but considered more times than Madara wants to count, hard for _him_ no matter how Tobirama’s eyes slip past him in real life.

Swiping a thumb across the head of his cock, Madara smears the beads of precome down the shaft, gritting his teeth to keep from bucking into his own touch. His mind slides past Tobirama laid out for him, settles instead on his expression earlier, all icy fire and passion, and he traps a cry behind his teeth, hips stuttering up into each increasingly desperate stroke. Tobirama is _beautiful_ , but he’s also blindingly smart, never afraid to challenge anyone. Madara wants that too, that burning soul. Wants to wrap his hands around it, pull it close and warm himself with it on long, cold nights when all he can remember is the ugliness of this city. Wants Tobirama’s acceptance, wants his hands on Madara, pulling him in, accepting him, wanting him in return.

He grits his teeth to keep from panting, imagining the tight-hot clutch of Tobirama’s body, the expression of painful pleasure on his face as Madara takes him again and again and again, takes until they're both satisfied at last. Legs wrapped around him, pulling him in, muffled cries against his skin, heat and desire and the blind-desperate fall towards completion, Madara’s name wrung out in breathless sounds, his marks left on pale skin for everyone to see. Tobirama’s lips parted, eyes wide, head thrown back, the tense-tight pull of every muscle—

One last hard drag of his hand and Madara comes, trying not to let even a single sound escape. His breathing is rough and stuttering, and even as the warm pleasure of orgasm retreats shame rises in its place, sick-hot and consuming.

Tobirama doesn’t know Madara loves him. This is Hashirama’s little brother, and Madara is using him as fantasy material. Has been for years, can't stop even when they argue, _especially_ when they argue. Tobirama doesn’t know, and Madara will probably never tell him, and every warm body he buries himself in will always be a poor imitation of the man he actually wants.

 

 

Waking up chained to a post is, unfortunately, not something new for Madara. Not something new for _Sharingan_ , specifically, especially after his early days with Hashirama when they were just starting out as heroes, still trying to understand their abilities. They’d failed often, usually spectacularly, and it’s still not as uncommon as Madara would really prefer, for one of them to end up captured and locked away while whatever nutjob is trying to conquer Konoha this week takes advantage of their separation.

Of course, the fact that the new upstart vigilante from the south side of the city is chained up across from him definitely makes for a new variation on the theme.

Madara bristles instantly, because that’s become his default reaction around Tempest in the four months the vigilante has been operating. Starting with the first encounter—which, Madara admits with the clarity of hindsight and an unwelcome dose of humility, did not go anything close to as it should have, on either team’s part—Tempest has been incessant in his need to _flirt_.

Normally Madara would be flattered. Between his job and being Sharingan and his _feelings_ , he doesn’t meet other people. However, Tempest _knows his name_ , which means that he’s too big a threat for Madara to be anything but incredibly wary. And even more than just that, Tempest is reckless, ruthless, vicious, and makes a habit of skirting the very edges of the grey areas in the laws that allow vigilantes to operate in Konoha. Together, he and Hellcat have left a trail of severely injured, terrorized criminals behind them as they clear out the south side.

With the hornet’s nest they’ve been kicking up, it’s little surprise Tobirama got mugged for his wallet. Desperate criminals are rarely smart, and Hellcat and Tempest haven’t been leaving anyone even vaguely connected to the underground with much room to breathe.

“You!” he snarls, jerking against the chains that are wrapped around his arms. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Contrary to _some_ opinions, Madara does actually hear himself when he talks. The words are barely out of his mouth before he realizes just how stupid a question that was, and has to restrain a wince.

Thankfully, Tempest doesn’t say anything. He simply snorts, stretching out his long legs until his soft, molded shoes are practically resting against Madara's boots, and twists a little to get comfortable. The rattle of metal links echoes in the space around them, otherwise empty, and sets Madara's teeth on edge.

“ _Well_?” he demands sharply.

Tempest favors him with a cool, scathing look through his dark blue mask. “They're hoping Hellcat will be distracted trying to find me,” he says, and then tips his head back to rest against the concrete, smirking faintly. “They failed to realize that she’s more likely to go and beat it out of them.” The mirrored lenses on his mask don’t make it possible to see his eyes, but Madara can guess from tone alone that Tempest is looking at him through his lashes when he says, “Until then, we seem to have some time to…get acquainted.”

Madara grits his teeth furiously, pointedly keeping his eyes away from the vigilante’s lithe body—he’s gorgeous, physically, and that blue-and-white suit is _very_ tight, to the point where it looks as if it were painted on. It’s been…well. _A while_ , really, since Madara went out to find a partner, even for a night, and given that Tobirama is currently not speaking to him, it’s enough to make him…frustrated.

A little desperately, he fixes his mind on the idea that they're a distraction, a misdirection. And, unlike Hellcat, Hashirama either won't see it or won't care. Unless Hellcat drags him along with her—not inconceivable, to be fair; if she phrases it right Hashirama will practically be falling over himself to help her—the moron will waste time scouring the city for him instead of focusing on the looming threat.

“Did you see who took us?” he demands, because despite the fact that his eyes can usually catch just about everything he needs them to, he entirely missed the blow that knocked him out. In fact, he can't remember a fight at all; he was on a rooftop overlooking the theater district, waiting for Hashirama to finish talking to the police below, and then—

“Gas,” Tempest growls, and it vibrates in his chest like a big cat’s snarl. “It was something airborne. They must have released it from a safe distance and waited until we were unconscious to take us. If Hellcat and Shodai were thoroughly distracted, they could manage such a thing easily.”

That is, unfortunately, all too true. Madara is far more accustomed to obvious threats, blatantly presented, and Tempest is used to fighting street crime. Admittedly he’s good at it—better than Madara would like—but a knockout gas released secretly from a good distance away takes more cunning than the common criminal generally possesses.

With a low huff of disgust—at himself, at Tempest, at criminals, at the entire situation in general—Madara thumps his head back against the concrete pillar behind him and wishes, just for a very brief moment, that he had Hashirama’s power, no matter how Disney-princess-like it would make him feel. What Madara can do is pretty much entirely defensive; he has to wait for an opponent to attack so that he can reflect it back at them. Handy in a fight, but useless in situations like this.

The temperature of the air drops noticeably, going cold enough to make Madara start shivering, and he opens his eyes to cast a disbelieving glare at his fellow prisoner. “What the hell are you doing? Are you _trying_ to give us frostbite, you stupid walking snow cone?”

Tempest huffs irritably, but his head is bowed as he concentrates on his chains. “I'm not trying to freeze _us_ , I'm trying to weaken the bolts. The chains are too thick by themselves, but there's always a weakness somewhere.”

The air warms rapidly back to normal, becoming almost painfully hot in comparison, and then cools again. Madara thinks about complaining, but if the brat can actually manage, it will be worth it, so he holds his tongue. And, barely a minute later, there's a ringing pop. Tempest’s chains go slack, and he immediately rises to his feet, unwinding them from around him. It doesn’t look like he has any intention of helping, so Madara takes a breath and opens his mouth, ready to yell—

And suddenly finds himself with a lapful of costumed vigilante, pressed right up against his chest. Tempest is straddling him, thighs gripping hard against Madara's, hips pressing down in the perfect position to make Madara's traitorous body _very_ interested. Madara's voice leaves him on a yelp, too high-pitched for comfort, and he tries to jerk backwards, only to crash painfully into the concrete pillar.

“ _What are you doing_?” he hisses, and wants it to come out as a snarl but instead has to suffer through the absolute indignity of _squeaking_.

There's a breath beside his ear, a huff of amusement as Tempest leans forward, making their chains click together as he braces his hands on some bolt Madara can't see. “Too much?” the vigilante asks, and Madara knows without looking that the bastard is _smirking_ at him.

Madara growls, resisting the urge to thrust his hips up. Let the little upstart bastard get a good feel of _too much_ then. If he had his hands free—

With a rattle, whatever was holding the chains to the post gives way, and Madara's hands _are_ free. He grabs Tempest before the slippery vigilante can wriggle his way out of this situation the way he always seems to, and with a jerk and a twist he flips their positions, slamming the other man right up against the pillar.

“ _Stop_. _FLIRTING. With. Me_ ,” he snarls right in that stupid masked face, tight next to full, kissable, fucking _tempting_ lips, and this isn’t soft, careful desire, an urge to give his partner just as much pleasure as he takes. No, this is vicious and greedy and selfish, one part frustration and one part anger and one part payback for _four months_ of full-contact flirting and making a fool of him so many times. This is Madara wanting, and resenting it, because the one he _actually_ wants is Tobirama, and this reckless fool with his white hair and skintight costume is just a _body_. This man is pretty and tempting and _interested in him_ , and it makes Madara _furious_.

Tempest laughs, low and mocking, and arches into Madara's body, pressing them together and looping a leg around the back of Madara's thighs to drag him forward even more. “Make me,” he taunts, right in Madara's face.

Well. Madara can't exactly be expected to ignore an invitation as blatant as that, can he?

He grabs Tempest’s face, jerking it up and at an angle, and crushes their mouths together hard. The body against him jolts, as if with surprise, but Tempest doesn’t protest and Madara doesn’t stop, especially when strong arms grab his shoulders, when Tempest shoves forward like he’s going to crawl into Madara's skin, when he kisses back like he’s desperate for it and yet just as angry as Madara all at the same time.

It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s anger and aggression and far too much pent up aggravation to be anything close to kind. Madara bites at Tempest’s mouth, grabs his ass and hauls him up, shoves him back into the concrete with all the weight of his body. Tempest gasps into his mouth, biting back, scraping Madara's lips with his teeth and getting his hands in Madara's long hair to pull like some sort of reins. Madara moans, hard and deep in his chest, shoves Tempest up higher to get his hands under the man’s thighs—

Someone knocks on the door.

Madara freezes, blinking, and Tempest stares back, just as surprised. They turn to glare at the door of the room, heavy steel shut tight, and the knock comes again.

“Anyone?” a voice—a _familiar_ voice—calls. “Come on, there's too many padlocks on this thing for the room to be empty. We’re friends, I promise.”

Madara all but dumps Tempest on the floor in his rush to leap away. He smooths his costume down as much as he can, thinks of Hashirama’s last crying fit during his weekly rom-com night until his problem is under control and calls, “Who are you?”

“Aha!” the familiar voice says triumphantly. There's a pause, and the door clicks, then swings open with a slow, groaning creak. Izuna is crouched in the opening, several long, slender bits of metal in his hands and a look of satisfaction on his face, and Madara has honestly never been so tempted to strangle anyone in his _life_.

(He really, _really_ doesn’t want to know how or why or _where_ his little brother learned to _pick locks_.)

Thankfully, before he can spit out any demands that would put his identity in danger, Tempest stalks past him like an offended cat, not so much as glancing in his direction. “You were being held as well?” he asks sharply, eyes flickering over Izuna, then on to the figure behind him—also vaguely familiar, though Madara can't quite place the face.

“Yeah,” Izuna says cheerfully, as if this is just another Tuesday. It takes every bit of Madara's willpower to keep from inflating like a pufferfish and screeching at him. _Being imprisoned by a maniac is not a joke, damn it._ “But the doctor got us out as soon as the guard came to check on us.”

The man—woman?—standing behind Izuna nods briefly. One pale hand rises to touch the _absolutely massive snake_ casually draped around slender shoulders, and the doctor says, “This beauty tells me we’ve no others to worry about—this bunker is mostly abandoned. We’re well outside the city limits.”

Between the snake, the face, and the voice, Madara manages to recall just where he’s seen the stranger before: this is the scientist who helped them against the reptilian monster several weeks ago. Some sort of connection to the White Fang, he thinks, remembering, if vaguely, the way the other hero acted around him.

Madara eyes the snake warily, but glances over at Tempest to find him looking back. A shared moment, both of them in silent agreement regarding Tempest’s earlier assessment that this is a distraction, and Madara turns his attention to their rescuers. “You're here to keep the White Fang distracted,” he says to the scientist, and—well, if their captors knew his identity taking Izuna would make sense, but they _don’t_ and it’s a moot point anyway, seeing as Madara is here as _Hashirama’s_ distraction. Therefore, there has to be another reason. He studies his brother for a second, a little wary, and asks, “And you're here because…?”

Izuna _beams_. It’s that particularly smitten, ridiculous expression that means whatever he says next is going to _thoroughly_ test Madara's control of his more homicidal impulses. “They took me because of Fury,” he answers, and there are practically hearts in his eyes. Madara knows his little brother enough to be _very_ worried about this. Even more so when he connects the name to the woman with superhuman strength and a very vicious sense of justice who’s been starting out in the business district.

Oh god. No wonder Izuna always seem to manage to drag himself out of the trouble he finds with only a few scrapes to show for it. He’s being _enabled_.

Oh _god_. Tempest knows Madara's identity, which means he probably knows _Izuna's_ , and if he mentions anything about Madara's secret in front of his little brother—

Powers or not, Madara will _die_. Izuna will _murder him_ for keeping a secret like this.

Apparently unaware of Madara's silent panic, Tempest steps right past Izuna without giving him a second glance, joining the scientist in the bare, dimly lit corridor. “They let you keep a pet?” he asks, sounding faintly amused.

The scientist snorts. “Hardly. She was in a cage in another room—likely a torture implement, the poor thing. I called her to me. Snakes are very clever about getting out of anywhere, given the right motivation.” He strokes the scaled head between the two tiny protruding horns, rubbing down ash-grey scales with black banding, and adds fondly, “I'm going to call her Kiyohime.”

A torture implement. Madara just barely manages not to shudder. “Which way?” he demands. “We need to get back to the city as soon as possible.”

Expression shading towards faintly miffed, the scientist points to their left. “Kiyohime was brought in from that direction, and she says she can still feel fresh air, likely an exit.”

That’s all Madara needs to know. He sweeps past the others, cape snapping grandly around his heels, and ignores Tempest’s derisive mutter. At least _his_ costume doesn’t have to be painted on every time he wants to wear it.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Tempest says from where the other three men are trailing him. “For the time in the square and now. You’re very handy to have around.”

“Well, I try my best.” It’s faintly flustered, and also very, very pleased. “I've admired your work since you started, Tempest. Street crime is truly the largest problem in Konoha, and to know that such a competent vigilante is focusing his attentions on curbing it truly eases my mind.”

Madara resists the urge to gag pointedly. If he and Hashirama didn’t focus on bigger things, like stopping the idiots who try to take over or destroy the city on a regular basis, there wouldn’t even a Konoha to worry about street crime _in_.

Thankfully, the passage suddenly widening and opening up into a much wider cavern distracts him from Tempest and his newfound fanboy. There's a white panel van with the symbol of a widespread electric company on the side, and a pair of motorcycles behind it. The wide door is down, sealed tight, but there's another smaller one off to the side, and Madara heads for it in what might be the beginnings of a fit of temper. He rattles the handle, but the entire thing refuses to budge. Locked from the outside, it seems, and that’s just _typical_ of the way this day is going.

“No lock,” Izuna says, sounding faintly disappointed as he comes to peer over Madara's shoulder. “Nothing I can pick on this one, sorry.”

“Izuna?” a woman’s voice demands through the metal, sudden enough to make Madara startle back a step. “Izuna, is that you?”

“Fury!” Izuna pushes past Madara to get right up against the door. “We’re stuck! Can you get the door open from that side?”

“Stand back. I’ll see what I can do.”

Seeing that Izuna is in no hurry to get to a safe distance, Madara snags his little brother’s collar and drags him towards the other two men, trying to subtly put himself between the door and Izuna. What does Fury thing she’s going to do, punch it off its hinges? That metal must be at least two inches thick, and there's solid concrete all around it.

Then the metal _dents_ in two spots, crumples as if someone just grabbed it and gripped tightly, and with a screaming screech of metal breaking, Fury pulls the entire door right out of its setting and drops it carelessly to the side. She steps into the gap, tall boots thudding loudly on the floor, and brushes rock dust from her purple-and-grey suit. Instantly, Izuna wiggles out of Madara's hold and bolts, and when she sees him coming her face lights up with thankfulness.

“Izuna!” she says, and grabs him to hold him at arm’s length. “You’re not hurt, are you? Did you give them a hard time? We’ve _talked_ about that.”

“I'm _fine_ ,” Izuna insists, and when her expression shades towards skeptical, he huffs. “ _Really_. Fine. They didn’t even touch me, I promise.”

If she’s trying to teach Izuna to keep his mouth shut when his safety is on the line, Madara can only be thankful. Before he can butt in and demand to know how long this all has been going on, though, another figure pushes into the room, and the White Fang immediately makes tracks for the dark-haired scientist.

“Lovely,” he sighs in clear relief and sweeps the other man off his feet, whirling him around in a tight hug, apparently oblivious to the massive viper still curled around the scientist’s neck. “Damn it, lovely, I thought we talked about these trouble magnet tendencies. I came home with the kids and you were _gone_.”

Madara mentally upgrades _acquaintances_ to _married_ , and tries not to think about it too much.

As soon as his feet are on the floor, the scientist kisses the White Fang, then steps back. “Forgive me, I’ll try my best not to get captured by _your_ enemies again.”

The White Fang just laughs, despite the pointed tone. “Well, this little one will definitely help,” he says with good humor, holding a hand out to the snake. “A horned viper to go with your king cobra? You certainly have a habit of attracting the dangerous ones, Orochimaru.”

“Her name is Kiyohime, and she knows not to bite unless I tell her to,” Orochimaru says without any apparent care. “The children didn’t worry too much?”

“I left Cub with them, but they seemed all right.” One hand comes up, and the White Fang cups Orochimaru’s cheek. “Lovely,” he sighs, then steps in, dropping his forehead to rest against Orochimaru’s and wrapping an arm around his waist. It’s only a little, but Madara can see the scientist lean into the touch. “Come on. I'm taking you home.”

“Finally. You're certain you’ve finished fretting? I can stand here in the middle of this cold bunker and let you worry at me for a few more minutes if your ego hasn’t been satisfied.”

Madara would puff up and yell. The White Fang just chuckles, half-turning to look at Fury. “You’ll be all right getting them back?” he asks. “Or do you want me to stay and help?”

The woman waves him off. “I've got my bike, and Tempest can take one of those.” A jerk of a thumb indicates the two bikes sitting off to the side. “We’ll be fine. Get back to your kids.”

Light blooms under the White Fang’s feet, lifting him and his companion off the ground. “Thanks, Fury. Tempest, Sharingan.” A tip of his head towards them and he’s gone, rising through the doorway and out into the sky.

“The others?” Tempest asks Fury, more polite than he ever is to Madara. It’s _infuriating_.

Fury snorts, elbowing Izuna pointedly when he tries to sneak an arm around her. “Hellcat tracked the bastards down, and Shodai helped her round them up. They’re all sitting pretty in jail at the moment. White Fang and I volunteered to come get you four while they cleaned out the last bolt-hole.” With a flick of her ridiculously long hair—really, that’s so long it’s a danger, and no, it is _not the same_ as wearing a cape—she turns, heading back outside. “Izuna, you’re riding with me. Let’s go.”

“Coming,” Izuna says cheerfully, then waves to Madara, winks at Tempest, and hurries out after his…girlfriend.

Madara thinks about storming out after them and protesting. Then he glances at the solid steel door Fury crumpled just by _grabbing it_ , and decides that in this case discretion may very well be the better part of valor.

“Have you ever driven a bike?” Tempest asks, and Madara bristles.

“ _No_ ,” he hisses. “Is this a violent vigilante thing? Do you all pick motorcycles to go with your image as reckless and unhinged?”

Tempest’s expression says that he’s very much judging Madara, and without answering he turns and plucks a set of keys off the wall. When he turns back, he’s _smirking_. “No,” he says smugly, “but it means that unless you’re prepared to walk to Konoha, you're riding bitch.”

Madara hates him. Madara hates him _so much_.

 

 

After the debacle of their last attempted weekly dinner, Madara doesn’t see either Tobirama or his red-haired shadow for almost two months. That’s mostly fine with Madara—he’s busy attempting to reconcile that kiss with Tempest. Mostly, he thinks, because Tempest reminds him of _Tobirama_ , but the way he acted around the vigilante isn’t even close to the way he’d act around Tobirama. Or maybe it is, and that’s the biggest problem of all. Because Madara _lost control_ , and Tempest was there to see it.

On an entirely unrelated note, Sharingan and Shodai redouble their efforts to stop Tempest and Hellcat, almost solely at Sharingan’s urging. Hashirama, Madara is disgusted to find, has come to _like_ Hellcat and is sheepishly supportive of her actions.

Madara's best friend is a _filthy traitor_ , but it’s not as if this is a surprise.

Regardless, after several increasingly plaintive requests and rather more begging than Madara is comfortable even simply overhearing, Tobirama gives in. Hashirama promptly takes to flouncing around the house as he cleans, chattering happily about dinner possibilities, because apparently they’re ignoring the fact that he sets the oven on fire just by looking at it. _Madara_ is always the one to cook, even if he’s mostly relegated to bachelor food.

This is a bit of a problem, given that Madara currently doesn’t want to be within three miles of Tobirama if at all possible.

Hiding in his room again, Madara thinks broodingly, is likely not the most mature way of dealing with the fact that he has feelings. It’s not overly satisfying, either—that was making Hashirama cry earlier, and Madara _still_ feels slightly guilty about it, even if he’s known Hashirama for long enough to realize that waterworks are a frequent thing with him. But—

But last night he dreamed that instead of Tempest being the one he grabbed and shoved up against that pillar, it was _Tobirama_. Tobirama, who looked at him in shock, who pushed him away and ran, and left Madara to wake with an achingly hard cock and a guilty conscience.

It’s not as if Tobirama will _know_. There's no way he can. But Madara knows, and that’s somehow even worse. Betrayal, not of Tobirama but of his own feelings. Of himself.

Madara has slept with other people since he fell into this one-sided love. Of course he has. They’ve never caused this reaction, because they weren’t Tobirama and he was always fully aware of that. But for some reason, Tempest blurs the line. Tempest is close enough that Madara is _tearing in two_ , and—

A knock on the door.

Madara almost wants to laugh at the bitter irony of it.

He pointedly doesn’t answer, but after a moment the door opens anyway, and the very person he’s been trying so hard to avoid steps into the room, already frowning faintly. Red eyes fall on Madara, a frost-white brow lifts, and Tobirama crosses his arms over his chest.

“Care to tell me why we’re not being subjected to another night of chicken stir fry or fried eggs?” he asks dryly. “Hashirama actually ordered takeout.”

If Hashirama is overturning his rule about takeout being for sick people or those without kitchens to make _real home cooked meals, Madara, of course they're more nutritious_ —completely ignoring the fact that between them they know maybe ten recipes, and about four of those are salad—it may actually be a cause for celebration. More of a cause would be Madara getting the cause of all his woes _out of his damned room._

“Then go eat it, if my food’s not good enough for your delicate taste buds,” he snaps, turning away. “And _leave me alone_.”

“Make me,” Tobirama returns, eyes narrowing, and—

Madara's entire being just _stops_.

 _Make me_ , Tempest had said, not quite that tone, and his voice modifier had been working enough to subtly warp the words, but—that inflection, that particular lilt. The angle of his head, the tilt of his chin, the way he had stood, braced _just like that_ —

Before Tobirama can duck out of the way, Madara spins back, takes a step closer, and slaps his hand over the top half of the bastard’s face.

Those lips are _incredibly_ familiar.

It makes a truly horrifying amount of sense, now that Madara's brain has managed to leapfrog from Point A to Point My Best Friend’s Little Brother Is Also Sort of My Sexy Nemesis. The similarities between Tobirama and Tempest, the redheaded best friend—and _oh_ , but is Hashirama going to have the biggest conniption of his life when Madara tells him that little tidbit— _knowing Madara's name_ …

And the flirting. That suddenly has so much more meaning behind it, especially given the angry way Tempest had kissed him back. Given that Madara was feeling _the exact same thing_.

“ _You_ ,” Madara manages, and it’s very nearly a splutter. “You— _Tempest_ —!”

A sigh tickles the skin of his wrist as Tobirama reaches up, prying the hand off his face. “Me,” he agrees, raising a brow at Madara's expression, which is probably shading towards red-violet with the force of his poorly contained rage. “For the record, we figured it out during our first encounter. It’s taken you almost six months.”

Of course the brat would try to turn this into a competition. _Of course_. Madara snarls in his face, _so fucking tempted_ just to strangle him and be done with this forever.

Tobirama smirks right back, and something tenuous in Madara gives way with a sharp, hard _snap_. He lunges forward, knocking Tobirama back into the wall, and for a second his hands can't decide whether to lock around the smug asshole’s throat or fist in his hair. He’s entirely undecided, right up until the moment Tobirama shoves forward and crushes their mouths together.

It’s a decent idea. Madara has a better one, and he’ll prove it just as soon as he can topple them over onto the bed.

If the brat wants a competition, Madara sure as hell is going to give him one.


End file.
